Summon
by Elizabeth Lucifer Moriarty
Summary: Murders are happening. Crime is too organized. The consulting criminal has returned. This is a Post-Reichenbach fic, beggining Johnlock, and possible Mormor. It is a texting joint-write by my friend RejectedByBrianHolden -great author, read her stuff!-, and myself. Any ideas or helpfull comments will be highly appreciated. Work-in-progress. Nothing set in stone. Yet.


**Have you gotten your jam yet? SH**

**What? Sherlock, if you WANTED jam, you should have put it on the shopping list. JW**

**John. I assumed that you would be getting jam. You always get jam. I was relying on your habitual tendencies, it's not my fault you're stupid enough to forget them. SH**

**Sherlock, you need to be more direct! You can't just assume that everyone follows a predetermined path! Normal people aren't machines! JW**

**Just get the sodding jam, John. SH**

**Gosh, Sherlock. I didn't know you could use words as common as 'sodding'. So unlike you. JW**

**John, don't resort to childish teasing. It doesn't suit you. SH**

**You must really want the jam. JW**

**I'll throw all your jumpers out the window, John, get the jam. SH**

**Goodness, you DO really want the jam. Am I allowed to ask why? JW**

**No. SH**

**Alright. I expect it'll be for one of your experiments, anyway. I'll get the sodding jam, Sherlock. JW **

**Good. SH**

**Er, what kind of jam did you want? JW**

**I don't know, John, any jam that tastes good. SH**

**Hm, I think I'll get the strawberry jam, then. It's quite good. JW**

**What is the zinc percentage? SH**

**Zinc percentage? Erm, I'm not sure, Sherlock. Why? JW**

**It's on the label, John. Look on the label. SH**

**The label, yes. Oh, sorry that bits all smudged, and this was the last jam the shop had. Do you really need to know the zinc percentage? JW**

**Stop asking questions. It's annoying. Just come back to the flat, John, I'll find out later. SH**

Sherlock smiled despite himself at John's text. Locking his phone, Sherlock tossed it on the couch and looked up at the smiley face sprayed onto the wallpaper. The bullet holes smattering the wall reminded him of his immeasurable boredom.

There was a knock on the front door. "Sherlock?" John's voice carried up the stars, to the sitting room where Sherlock was, "Sherlock, I've forgotten my keys, and you've locked me out again." There was a pause. "That means come and open the door, you great git!"

Sherlock groaned loudly behind the door before swinging it open for John. "Your keys are clearly in your back pocket, John. Stop whining."

"Ah." John's face reddened with embarrassment as he felt the back of his trousers, and conferment Sherlock's statement. "Well, erm, here's your jam, then." He handed the small jar over to Sherlock, and then said, "Hang on, how _did_ you know that my keys were in my _back_ pocket?"

Sherlock's ears turned pink. "I made tea," he muttered, changing the subject, Sherlock spun on his heel grandly, swooping across the flat before plopping himself down onto the sofa.

John followed, and stood before Sherlock before asking, "Sherlock, were you checking out my bum?"

"Don't flatter yourself, John," Sherlock scoffed, a blush creeping up his neck.

John grinned. "Oh I wasn't flattering myself. People do check me out, it's been known to happen," John sat down next to Sherlock, "I just didn't know you did that as well."

Sherlock was red to the roots of his hair now, averting his eyes from his flat mate. "I don-don't CHECK YOU OUT, John."

John's grin widened, "alright, just checking." He reached for the remote, and turned on the telly, before leaning back into the couch, very aware of Sherlock next to him.

Sherlock wasn't quite as relaxed as John. In fact, John was SO nonchalant that he had thrown his arm across the back of the couch, just behind Sherlock's shoulders.

As the show they were watching on telly progressed, John had slowly scooted closer and closer to Sherlock, until they were pressed very closely together, with John's arm now dangling around Sherlock's shoulders.

John glanced at Sherlock. The detective's hair was unruly, like he had just rolled out of bed. It was one of those days when there was simply nothing for Sherlock to do; he had just solved the last case Lestrade had challenged him with, and now all Sherlock did was lie around the flat complaining or composing. John didn't mind too much though; he enjoyed the sound of Sherlock's violin.

John cocked his head. He wondered what it would be like to wrap one of Sherlock's ringlets around his finger.

"John." Sherlock's voice broke through his reverie. Oops. One of his fingers WAS wrapped in Sherlock's hair. Unthinking, he must have just reached up, and-whoops. "Erm, sorry." John muttered, and slowly began to disentangle his hand from the detective's raven locks.

Sherlock leaned into John's hand, closing his eyes. "It's okay."

John suddenly found it rather difficult to breathe. He watched the detective's face as he worked his fingers through the surly black chaos of his hair.

Sherlock made a quiet sound in the back of his throat, almost like he was purring.

John couldn't hold it anymore. He leaned in, closing his eyes, holding the back of Sherlock's head, and softly pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

Sherlock stiffened. Like a punch in the face, John realized that that might have been Sherlock's first kiss. He pulled away and looked at Sherlock, his eyes wide.

"I-I oh, god, Sherlock, I'm…I'm sorry." John stammered, pulling back and looking away, mortified.

Sherlock was quiet for a long time. Suddenly, he growled from somewhere in his chest and launched himself at John again.

John gasped as their mouths crushed together, Sherlock's strong arms pushing him down into the couch, turning him over to slide on top of the stunned doctor.

Sherlock moaned loudly when John nipped at his bottom lip. John nearly laughed despite himself at Sherlock's inability to keep any discretion.

John worked his tongue into Sherlock's mouth with practiced ease, and cherished every noise that hummed through the detective. John smiled.

There was a knock at the door. The noise surprised Sherlock so much that he let out a muffled squeak and rolled off John onto the floor. Lestrade peeked in, already in the middle of his sentence, "-got a case, Sherlock, you'll like this one."

Lestrade remained oblivious to the situation in the sitting room, giving Sherlock a split second to leap to his feet, and busy himself with the tea that he and John had forgotten.

Lestrade walked into the room they were in and looked at John quizzically. "You look a little wrecked, mate, you okay?"

John threw an arm hastily behind his neck. "Nah, mate. M'fine. Just getting ready to take a nice kip." Sherlock poured a cup of tea, and brought it to Lestrade, smiling timidly and blushing softly,

"And I was just making some tea. Care for a cup?"

"Sure!" Lestrade grinned, pleased at Sherlock's strange kindness. "Anyway, this case just came up. I think you'll like it."

Sherlock tried to reply, but came out with a squeak, cleared his throat, and asked, "What kind of a case?"

"Murders," Lestrade's voice was all business, "but here's the thing; we think it might be a vigilante. The victims are all ex-cons, and they were all killed in a way that relates to their crime."

"Ah, how interesting," Sherlock was back to his normal self in an instant, "so shooters get shot, stabbers get stabbed, and the others as such," he leaned forward steepling his long, slender fingers, "redemption. Karma. Neat."

"Exactly," Lestrade grinned. "So you'll check it out?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock stood, grinning. "To the beginning of the puzzle, Lestrade, you lead."

"John, are you coming?"

John had sat up on the couch, and had observed this exchange with a rather miffed put-outedness. He looked up at Sherlock, and sighed, "yeah, sure. I'll get my coat and bag."

Sherlock smiled softly. That smile caused Lestrade to shoot him a surprised glance. Why was Sherlock being so…._gentle?_ Sherlock hadn't said a single snarky word to him since he arrived.

Lestrade shook his head, and ushered the two out the door, two his car, watching curiously as Sherlock slid in the back seat next to John, perhaps sliding a little closer than he usually would.

Once at the crime scene, Sherlock set about with his usual weirdness while John and Lestrade stayed on the sidelines.

Lestrade thought about how to begin what he knew would end up being an incredibly awkward conversation. And cleared his throat to begin. "Erm, John?"

"Yeah?"

"I uh, well…I noticed that you and Sherlock…" he trailed off, and John felt his face burn.

"What-what do you mean, Greg?" John sputtered.

"I, erm. Well, you two seem a bit..._over friendly_ today."

"That's rubbish." John had gone pink.

"Is it now?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows, and tilted his head, a smirk forming on his face, "and you're quite sure about that?"

John pursed his lips. "It's none of your ruddy business."

Lestrade's smirk grew into a grin, "alright then. Just so long as it doesn't interfere with either of your abilities on the case, I'm fine with it."

John blushed scarlet.

Greg laughed heartily, and clapped John on the back. "I'm happy for you, mate. You're a positive influence on him; he needs to learn how to commit. Not to mention the fact that it's good that you're finally accepting the fact that you're…" Lestrade looked away, embarrassed.

"I'M NOT-" John took a deep breath, "I'm not gay. It's just him."

"Yeah? And I suppose you're just along for the ride then, eh?" Lestrade sneered.

John scowled.

Lestrade smiled, and gave him a pointed look, "I told you. We always knew it, and still you always insisted on denying it."

"I'm not," John grumbled, looking back at Sherlock, who was crouched over the body.

"I see the way you look at him. Don't deny it, because…he looks at you the same way." Greg smiled kindly.

"It's not-I'm…okay, I. I like Sherlock. But JUST Sherlock. I'm not gay."

Greg chuckled. "Okay, okay. If you're only gay for him, who can blame you? The Holmes men are QUITE good-looking."

John glanced at Greg, who was smirking to himself. "Um."

Greg looked over at him, "yes, John?"

John stared, his mouth agape, before shaking his head. "Never…nevermind."

Greg's brow furrowed. "What is it, John?"

John made a face, trying to push the images of Lestrade and Mycroft together out of his head. "nothin'"

Greg sighed. "Really, John. It should be acceptable for me to mention my relationship when I just walked in o you and Sherlock snogging on a couch!"

"W-" John flushed. "We-shut up!"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Well?" he asked John, "Have you asked him to dinner yet?"

"No." John muttered.

Greg gasped, theatrically appalled, "Mr. Watson! You just went straight for second base without even swinging! Shame!"

"It's not like I PLANNED-" John groaned, dragging a hand down his face, "Greg, you're just being difficult."

"I'M being difficult?! What about _you,_ Mr. John Changing-Sexualities Watson?"

"Oh, excuse me, I believe Sherlock needs my help," John glared, stalking over to his flat mate's side just to get away from Lestrade.

Sherlock glanced up from his careful examination as he heard the loud footsteps of John approaching. "What's wrong, John?"

"Lestrade's just being a wanker," John crouched down beside Sherlock. "What've we got?"

"Mmh; bashed in the head by the looks of it. Small, sharp object, going by the puncture holes. A poker, perhaps. Yes, that seems about right…"

"Any deductions about the vic?"

"Which victim? This one-or the one that this one-yes-_poked _to death two days ago_?"_

"Two…how did you know that?" John asked, glancing at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "really John, don't be daft. His fingers. They have short, raw, rubbed areas that are clearly from swinging a poker-or long rod of the sort- multiple times, at many angles. The rub wounds are obviously about two days old."

"Brilliant. You're brilliant."

Sherlock looked down, and blushed. "I know that John, and you don't have to tell me."

"You don't hear it enough," John looked back down at the body. "So, any ideas on who did it?"

"Yes. Several, in fact. The most dominant being a man, tall and broad-shouldered, judging by the way he swung…" Sherlock paused, leaning over the body, "yes and rather lean, but quite muscular. About 6'3", I would say, and around 30. Left-handed and …brunette."

John was silent for so long that Sherlock looked over. He was staring at Sherlock with wide, amazed eyes. "Brilliant. Bloody brilliant."

Sherlock inflated. "Brilliant, you say? No, John. Brilliant would be if I told you that…" Sherlock turned back to the body, squinting at the wounds, "...our vigilante was well-trained. Yes, he knew what he was doing. His strokes were efficient and effective. No, brilliant would be if I told you that he knew this man before he killed him. Yes, he knew all of them. The killers who were killed. And they all knew he was coming for them. Brilliant would be if I told you that this vigilante we are looking for doesn't seem to want anything but to make a statement; don't mess with me. Brilliant, John, would be if I did THIS." Sherlock reached out, cupped John's face in his hands, and kissed him.

John happily squeaked and kissed back enthusiastically. Sherlock's intelligence had always amazed John, but knowing that he was showing off JUST to impress him was something that John didn't think would turn him on like it did

Sherlock pulled back for a moment, ignoring Greg's distant catcalls, and looked John in the eye, "oh, and scratch a few things, he wasn't brunette, he was blonde. Military trained. And the statement wasn't so much 'don't mess with _me_' as 'don't mess with my _boss_'."

John nodded before crushing his lips against Sherlock's again in a bruising kiss.

"John," Sherlock spoke against John's lips, before pushing him back slightly, "you know what I'm saying, right? The man we're looking for. A trained man, blonde, tall, muscular, working for someone powerful. And by the looks of things, his boss's empire has gotten a little out of hand in his absence, and the boss has sent his faithful lackey out to finish off the most problematic…killers."

"Sounds like Jim," John murmured.

Sherlock made a grumbling sound, "for all of your intelligence, John, you can be extremely _dim._ YES, John, it's Jim. Well, Sebastian Moran, but all in all Jim. He's back."


End file.
